


Grooming

by Raven_Ehtar



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Friendship, Gen, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 11:36:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raven_Ehtar/pseuds/Raven_Ehtar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angels don’t tend to take very good care of their wings. Not like demons. Sometimes the state of Aziraphale’s gets to be too much for Crowley to ignore anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grooming

**Author's Note:**

> I've seen plenty of fan art out there for Castiel from Supernatural getting groomed, bathed or what have you, but not much for Aziraphale. Got to thinking about it and the scene was too adorable to pass up.

“Damn it, angel, would you please hold still?”

Aziraphale turned slightly in his chair to look back at Crowley. He looked vaguely hurt at the tone used by the fallen angel. “Perhaps if you were a touch gentler…?”

Crowley scowled at him and lifted his dark shades away, setting them on his head. Aziraphale was one of the very few people whom he could look directly in the eye without worrying about any screaming or fainting. It was only fair, though, since they had known each other since the very Beginning. Hells bells, when they’d first met in person Crowley had been covered in scales and low on extraneous limbs. Aziraphale still flinched slightly at the scowl leveled on him. “I’ve _tried_ being gentle, and it doesn’t work. If you want gentle then you should let me work on your wings more often.”

Aziraphale, who was like most angels and didn’t keep his wings as neatly groomed as he should, pouted slightly, the huge flight feathers trembling under Crowley’s fingers. If he had bothered to keep his wings neat, the spread of pearly, opalescent feathers would have been glorious – go figure. The span of them alone would make any ornithologist weak at the knees. When they were spread out Crowley’s spacious flat became intolerably crowded. The feathers themselves were marvelous, practically glowing with their own inner light and arranged in luxurious layers. Or at least they _would_ have been if the angel ever bothered to take proper care of them. But like his hair – which Crowley had to restrain himself from straightening as well – his wings were a mussed, tangled mess, the feathers ruffled and dull. Rather than looking like a ready and glowing warrior of God, he looked like a windblown budgie.

He supposed it fit with his overall image, a reclusive bookshop owner, even if his few determined customers never saw his wings at all. It always baffled him how someone so fastidious could also be so disheveled.

Crowley had grown tired of the angel’s scruffy appearance. His own wings, onyx black and smoke soft, were always immaculate and perfect, and being faced with Aziraphale’s disreputable pair made his fingers itch and wings creep in sympathy. It took a few days of subtle hints and about an hour of outright pestering to get Aziraphale to let him work on them. It wasn’t the first time Crowley had done so, but it was far from a regular custom. Allowing someone to clean your feathers and re-lay them was something that indicated a huge amount of trust – fewer things were more sensitive on an angel than their wings. Aziraphale seemed to think that showing that much trust to Crowley, a lowly demon, was a breach of proper angelic behavior. Even with the Arrangement that had been in existence for centuries, the angel was still a little sensitive about some things. 

But not so sensitive that it would prevent him from allowing Crowley to go wrist deep into his feathers if he pestered him long enough.

“Could you at least refrain from yanking them out by the roots?” the angel asked, his wings trembling again as he stretched a little. “It’s quite unnecessary, I’m sure,” he added.

“I wouldn’t be quite so sure of that,” Crowley commented drily, untangling two feathers. “And besides, I haven’t pulled free a single one. Yet.”

Aziraphale looked down pointedly. On the floor, in little piles around the legs of the chair the angel was sitting in, were many small, white downy feathers and one or two large flight feathers. He looked back up at Crowley, a brow raised.

The demon rolled his flame colored eyes. “ _Those_ were already loose, tender wing,” he snapped. “You realize that when you molt you need to shake the shed feathers free? I’m sure I’ve told you so a few times before…”

Aziraphale pulled a face at him, then turned forward again, doing his best to look prim. It didn’t quite work, as it was hard for a windblown budgie to come across as prim. “Just give me some warning, then, before you get too enthusiastic.”

The angel went back to reading his book, an accessory it was almost impossible to spot him without, and Crowley smothered a laugh, shaking his head at Aziraphale’s less than convincing attempt at aloofness. It really did not work on him, it made him look adorable rather than cold. 

Crowley decided not to point this out, at least for now, and let the angel keep his illusion. 

He returned his attention to Aziraphale’s wings, working to untangle and lay the feathers flat. In deference to the complaint, he did try to go more carefully than before. At least his wings were reasonably clean, Crowley thought to himself. They weren’t pristine – it would be hard to become so mussed and still keep every surface perfectly clean – but they were far from the grimy mess they could have been. That wasn’t too surprising, though. Angels might be careless about their appearance, but they were clean. It was next to Godliness, according to rumor, and a lot of the Heavenly Host took such patronizing maxims to heart. 

Even without the proverb, Crowley doubted Aziraphale would allow his wings to get mucky. He was disorganized – to a point – but finicky. 

Crowley had begun on Aziraphale’s right wing – the one he was less sensitive about and the best one to begin with – close to the body and with the top most layer of feathers. It would mean that as he worked his way down and out he would be ruffling up what he had already worked on, but this was only the first pass, and anything he mussed would be fixed again later. 

He worked carefully, going from the shorter top feathers, the scapulars, marginal coverts and the alulae back and down to the mid-length tertiaries, secondary coverts and primary coverts, and finally to the largest of all of them, the main flight feathers; the secondaries and primaries. Each time he got to a certain point he would tap the wing to get Aziraphale to extend it out and allow him access to those areas that were hidden when they were folded in. Once finished with the final long feathers from the back, Crowley tapped a wing bone lightly. 

“Tuck it in, halo, time for the other side.”

The wing folded back obediently, though not without an expressive little twitch at the slang used on him. Aziraphale hated the term ‘halo,’ which was why Crowley used it. He watched with a satisfied eye, though, as the newly groomed layers of feathers slid and interlocked with each other much easier than before, the wing closing with a rustle. By the time he finished, that rustle would be the merest whisper of sound.

The underside of the wing wasn’t nearly as much of a mess as the back had been. It could have been because of the time Crowley had already spent on one side taking care of this side as well. Crowley suspected, though, that it was just because it was easier for Aziraphale to reach this side. 

Crowley wondered if he could get away with bringing in some music, something that wasn’t Queen, or if the angel would object to tunes. When he looked over Aziraphale’s shoulder, though, he saw that he was fully absorbed in his book. The demon craned his neck, trying to make out the words. “What’s that you’re reading?”

Aziraphale looked up, blinking. Apparently he’d been so absorbed that coming back out again required physical effort. “Pardon?”

“I said, what are you reading, angel?”

The blond regarded the aged, slightly ragged volume in his hands. It was quite old, possibly one of those first editions he was so very fond of collecting. Crowley knew that since the War-That-Was-Not Aziraphale had been working hard on rebuilding up his collection of rare books. It would never be quite the same, as every one of his previous collection had been first editions, even those from centuries before, some of them signed by the author. Still, it gave him something to do, trying to undo the damage done by the fire that had gutted his bookshop. Adam – the antichrist – had done his best to undo most of it, but some things were best done by hand. 

“ _Don Quixote_ ,” he said, running a manicured hand over the cover lovingly. “Have you ever read it?”

Crowley pulled a face, his mouth twisting a little. “I think I saw the movie when it came out. Peter O’Toole. Pretty good musical numbers.”

Aziraphale smiled, and stretched out his wing at a tap. “I’m surprised, I wouldn’t have thought it your sort of venue.”

Crowley shrugged. “It wouldn’t be, normally, but I like O’Toole.”

With a nod, Aziraphale went back to reading, letting the demon continue with the chore of straightening his feathers. Crowley did so in silence a minute or two, then, after some intense thought, cleared his throat. “Would you mind – or like to, I don’t know… reading aloud?”

Aziraphale paused, and looked back up at him, one brow raised. 

If he hadn’t been a demon and in theory immune to such things, Crowley would have said he flushed with embarrassment at that simple questioning glance. “Well it’s boring,” he blurted in explanation. “Just fixing your feathers in silence. _You’re_ not doing anything constructive, so you might as well be entertaining.”

“Charming.”

“You know what I mean,” Crowley sighed. “It’ll help the time pass more pleasantly. So if you wouldn’t mind?”

For a full minute the angel stared at him, fixing him with a light blue stare. Crowley refused to squirm under the scrutiny as a matter of principle. _He_ was the demon, here. Finally Aziraphale broke into a beatific smile that seemed all too knowing for Crowley’s liking. “I would be happy to, my friend.”

“Oh, give it a rest, Az,” he grumbled, and dug his fingers back into the curtain of feathers as the angel turned back to the beginning to read from the start. 

Crowley’s theory that time would pass more quickly with the book being read aloud turned out right, at least fromCrowley’s point of view. The right wing was finished quickly, and the left was done in what felt to be half the time of the first. Moreover, it seemed to do the angel a world of good. As he read, Crowley could feel him relaxing under his hands, becoming less twitchy about small tugs or of being touched in more sensitive areas. By the time they were finished with his left wing, Aziraphale felt more relaxed and at ease than Crowley could ever remember him being during a grooming session. 

After the feathers had been thoroughly worked through once, it was time to rinse them down. Crowley often joked that they should just find a giant birdbath – personally he would love to see the angel using it – but Aziraphale’s dark expression whenever he brought it up always derailed the idea before he could go all the way through with it. Besides, knowing this particular angel, he’d probably drown himself if he got too enthusiastic about his bathing. 

What he had instead was a bottle with a misting head, much like the one Crowley used on his plants while going around and terrorizing them into new heights of growing. With it filled to the brim with warm distilled water and the head set to its gentlest setting, he went over the angel’s wings a second time, spritzing each layer of feathers till they were damp but not dripping. Almost halfway through the routine on the second wing, the limb trembled, and Aziraphale stopped reading to cover his mouth with a hand.

“Almost done, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, eyeing the level of water in the bottle.

“It tickles…!” the angel managed to gasp out between smothered giggles.

Crowley rolled his eyes. Aziraphale always had this problem when it came time to rinse his wings. The amount of moisture gathered on his feathers wasn’t enough to begin dripping onto his floor, but it was enough to leave creepy crawling sensations creeping through them. Crowley knew this well enough through his own experience it tickled him, too, but he was better at controlling himself. 

“Just hold on a couple more minutes…”

The demon finished his rinsing as quickly as he was able without missing anything, Aziraphale practically vibrating the entire time. When the last section had been thoroughly dampened, he stepped back, quickly and far, out of range for what was about to happen.

“Alright, halo, let ‘er rip!”

It was like being caught in a small, intense hurricane of wind and damp feathers. Aziraphale, given permission to do so, shook and fluffed up his wings, shaking off the dew-like dampness, then flapped them, their huge span filling the flat with wind as he dried them. Crowley just ducked and covered, keeping out of reach of the wings themselves and out of as much of the fallout as possible.

When it was calm again Crowley peeked out cautiously. The flat was in turmoil with Aziraphale still sat, looking sheepish in the middle of it, a few stray feathers sticking up at odd angles around his shoulders. He looked around the carnage he’d caused and smiled, again sheepishly. Crowley just rolled his eyes, and with a snap of his fingers set everything back in order. 

“I still say that a big concrete bowl full of water in the garden would make this a lot easier,” he commented, taking up position behind him. 

The angel snorted. “And wouldn’t I look the fool in a birdbath?”

“You look the fool in any case,” Crowley said, poking him in the back of the head. “Now get back to reading.”

Aziraphale picked up the ancient text again. “One would think you actually enjoyed the story, serpent.”

Crowley didn’t comment, and Aziraphale picked up where he’d left off. Truth was, he _was_ enjoying the story, but it was as much the telling as the story itself. Aziraphale had an easy, pleasant rhythm when he read, and he had a way of reading off dialogue without resorting to full on voices that made it easy to tell who was who. Aziraphale just had a pleasant voice in general, but it was sometimes hard to tell when what he normally talked _about_ was so annoying. It was a nice change to hear him when talking about something neutral. But it would be a cold day in Hell before he admitted that to the angel.

The third and final phase of Aziraphale’s grooming was the preening phase. Using his fingers again, Crowley combed his way through each layer, laying down any final strays, and spreading the oil from the glands at the base of the wing bones throughout the feathers, coating and protecting them, and giving them the soft, lustrous shine they were meant to have. It was during this last part of grooming when the wings transformed from a dull, ragged mess to the radiant, crowning glory of an angel they were meant to be.

It was also the phase Aziraphale enjoyed the most, Crowley realized. Before when he’d done this for him, the angel had been relatively silent. Now he was reading aloud, and occasionally a word or two would become a grunt or moan as Crowley massaged the oils through his feathers. 

Crowley was surprised he found it was so agreeable, and feeling wicked and coy, worked his fingers a little slower and deeper than before. He was rewarded with more happy moans and with Aziraphale’s wings actually pushing back into his hands. Crowley grinned and made a mental note to try this again some other time. 

When he was finished, the white wings were gleaming and perfect, and almost looked out of place on the angel who was himself still quite mussed.

He tapped Aziraphale on the shoulder. “Alright, halo, all done. You’re a credit to the species again thanks to the kind generosity of a demon.”

Aziraphale let out a long, contented sigh, stretching his wings and settling them again. “Thank you, darling. You realize, of course, that you’re only helping to prove my point that you’re a good man, deep down.”

Crowley waved his hand. “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, angel. Just don’t spread it around, eh?”

“As you wish.” Aziraphale stood and stretched his arms up high over his head, looking more relaxed and contented than Crowley remembered seeing him in a long time.

“Oh?” Crowley quipped, wiping his hands clean on a towel. “Well, I _wish_ you would let me do this more often. It would be much easier without so much build up to work through.” He tilted his head at the angelic bibliophile, a coy smile tugging his lips. “And you seem to quite enjoy it, too.”

Aziraphale turned slightly red, but met Crowley’s red eyes evenly. “Perhaps. And when I come back, I’ll be sure to bring the book.” He hefted _Don Quixote_ for him to see, like it was a protective talisman.

“If you think it will help,” Crowley countered slyly.


End file.
